My name is Jordan. Jordan comes from yarden, the Hebrew word for flowing down or descending. Flowing down seems too elegant for me. It reminds me of a beautiful river amidst meadows of blowing green grass. Descending is too graceful. It reminds me of a beautiful angel, blessing Earth with their very being.

But Jordan to me is much different from yarden. Jordan is more like a weathered rock pile, smelling of the dirt and the rain, with each rock teetering precariously on top of the other, moments from toppling and plunging down to the earth, shattering upon impact.

My name is a troublesome thing. When people read it from a page, they picture a young, rowdy boy with shaggy hair and baggy clothes and bruises on his knees from skateboarding mishaps. Occasionally, they’ll think of Michael Jordan, and say that to my face as if I haven’t heard it a million times before. I give them a lipped smile. I’ll feel annoyance swell in my chest. I’ll push it down but the feeling lingers. They expect more from me than what I can give. Far too often, I’ve received letters from private males-only institutions asking me to attend and become one of them. They see the name but not me. A faceless person to join a faceless horde.

It stems most likely from my origin. My father’s uncle has the same name. My parents always tell me how smart he was. How innovative. How amazing. Yet I’ve never met him. He is just a blank face to my mind. My mother will then hastily add that she had a roommate in college named Jordan. She was nice—her only characteristic. She is just an afterthought. One to make me think that I wasn’t solely named after a faceless uncle.

I want to break free from this and all the roughness and visions of calloused hands and faceless people the sound of Jordan brings. I want the same feel of the smoothness of vanilla custard and the sweet summer rain that other names feel like.

Yet, I cannot bring myself to change my name.

I’ve tried over the years, crafting nicknames for myself like J or Jenny or anything that sounded sweeter to ears. I’ve thought many times that if my name wasn’t Jordan I’d be seen differently. I’d be smarter. I’d be sweeter. But Jordan just stuck. The long Midwestern ohs of the first syllable and the hasty pronunciation of the second feels warm upon others’ tongues. I’ve grown to like the way it sounds. It feels familiar to my ears. That is my name. I hope that when strangers meet me, the image of the rocks will fade as the stones melt into the earth and grass shoots up and flower buds bloom and a spring revival will occur.